


Aches

by foxy_mulder



Series: Ever Abating [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Sex, He could be read as transmasc/nb its up to interpretation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier has a big dick, Like they are In LOVE love, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Riding, Self-Esteem Issues, Tenderness, This is the tenderest shit i have ever written, This sounds angsty but i swear its about to be on some sappy shit, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxy_mulder/pseuds/foxy_mulder
Summary: The truth is, Geralt wants.The truth is, he shouldn't.It’s just the way things are, and it’s fine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ever Abating [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675486
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1417
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey CW just in case(?)
> 
> In this fic Geralt goes by he/him pronouns and his genitals are referred to as cunt/clit/etc. If that's an issue for you this might not be the fic for you to read!

The truth is, Geralt wants. 

The truth is, he shouldn't. 

It’s just the way things are, and it’s fine.

Sometimes, after months on the road, his skin itches with a need to touch. Sometimes, he pays for a night. She has soft, dull eyes, soft hair that he isn’t allowed to touch. No kissing. She smells like she doesn’t want to be here, a stench of nerves and boredom and cloying perfume. She lays him out on the bed methodically, nails gripping his thighs with only the barest fingertips. He gets the sense that if she were allowed to wear gloves for this, she would. It’s a common reaction. She does not speak as she enters him with her fingers, thumb circling his clit, efficient, clinical. He holds his breath and comes as silently as he can, clenching around her fingers as they still. She stands, wipes her hand on a rag, puts on her clothes, and leaves. He feels where she touched his knees for days after. It is enough. 

Sometimes, he doesn't pay. The man catches his eye and wordlessly motions upstairs, and he goes, because he needs it, he aches. The man has sharp eyes and strong legs, and he smells of anger and ale and heady arousal. He says there’s no kissing, and keeps his eyes closed as he fucks him, bed creaking harshly against the wall until he comes. He spits on the floor and leaves, drunk, pants around his ankles. Geralt waits until he’s gone and rubs rough circles through his smallclothes until he comes, too. And it’s enough.

Sometimes, in the woods, he lies on his bedroll and touches himself, quickly and perfunctory, to scratch the itch of need. He thinks of calloused fingers and gentle touches, and he muffles his breaths against his bedroll so Jaskier doesn't wake. And it’s enough.

It’s always been enough.

He and Jaskier have returned from a recent hunt with enough coin for two rooms. Geralt would rather have saved it and camped, but Jaskier wore him down over the course of the week, begging to come into town. A draft comes in the window and he sighs. What’s the point of a fucking inn if it’s as cold inside as it is outside? He leans off the bed against the windowsill, to hear the sounds of night- the breeze stirs, crickets chirp, patrons of the tavern below chatter quietly before trickling back to their rooms for the night. And he hears someone fucking at an obnoxious volume a few rooms over, a continuous thumping and voices- 

_“Aren’t you a sight, oh, I’ll write a song about your clavicles I swear-”_

He groans. Of course. Maybe that’s why he wanted to stay in town so badly. Geralt rolls over with the fur blanket over his head, but it does nothing to muffle the sounds of Jaskiers chattering through the walls as he fucks some tavern-goer who caught his eye.

A low moan sounds through the wall and Jaskier is still talking conversationally.

_"Noisy, aren't you? I love that, you know I think it’s going to rain tonight-”_

Geralt shifts under the blanket. Noisy. Of course that’s Jaskiers type. Young, sweet, chatty creatures. His skin aches, and he is alone tonight. Tomorrow he will find someone to take the edge off. 

\---

He scans the room. No one looks particularly interested in him. Normally the Witcher fuckers are either rebellious young barely-adults looking to experiment, or bitter people who hate Witchers, and want to have their way with him as a strange sort of outlet. 

Perhaps because it is mid-week, or because it’s so remote, there’s only a handful of people at the tavern. And the town doesn’t have a brothel. Just his luck.

Jaskier sidles up to him from where he had been playing his repertoire for the grand total of three other people in the tavern.

“You’re looking a little murderous.”

“Hm.” He doesn't want to talk about this. Not with Jaskier of all people. 

“What's the matter?” He looks concerned now, and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Geralt's skin burns.

“There’s no brothel here.”

Jaskiers face lights up in amusement. “Need to get our rocks off that bad, do we?"

“Hm.”

“Well, you know, if you want, I’m always around for free.” And then he winks and goes back to his post, playing bawdy love songs at the bar. 

_What?_

He has no idea if that was a real offer. Knowing Jaskier, it could be just… Actually, knowing Jaskier, it was almost certainly real. But Jaskier wouldn’t sleep with him. Would he? He is idiotic enough to follow him around. But it doesn't add up. Jaskier is attractive and could have anyone. Everyone loves him. It doesn't make sense. It's not the way things are. 

He watches Jaskier sing along with the progressively drunk men, sitting on the bar with his legs swaying over the edge, and the one hair that always sticks up is sticking up, and his hands flutter over the chords with practiced precision, and his skin aches and aches.

\---

“I’m taking you up on your offer.” He stands outside Jaskiers doorway, and Jaskier jumps, startled.

“You-what?” he looks surprised. Perhaps it was suggested in jest after all. “What offer?”

“To… sleep with me.”

“Are you serious?”

There is a painful silence as Jaskier looks at him incredulously. This was a terrible idea. He sighs and turns to go, shouldering his growing shame. Stupid to even think of it. 

"Wait! Wait!" Jaskier practically scrambles up to follow him to his room. "Sorry, I just- really? Serious?" 

Geralt grits his teeth, already regretting the lapse in judgement that has led them here, and they walk down the hall, Geralt striding ahead with his head low while Jaskier trails eagerly behind.

Geralt sits on the beds edge and waits for Jaskier to get on with it. He finds it’s easier to let the other person take the lead and do what they will, it gets the process over with much sooner and soothes the ache to a manageable level. And the other party is always eager to get on with it as well. Jaskier, however, spends a long moment just looking at him from the doorway. A nervous smile plays across his face before he stumbles inside, shutting the door and standing at the edge of the bed.

“Can I?” He takes hold of Geralt's shirt. He nods.

Jaskier flushes as he pulls the shirt over Geralt's head, undoes the strings on Geralt's pants, gingerly tugging them off and throwing them in the corner. His gaze rakes over Geralt with a strangely tender expression, the kind of look he often places dotingly on soft animals and bright flowers he sees when they're on the road. It's almost novel, Geralt thinks, to see it lain on something like himself, so opposite of those things. Absurd, and uneccesarily kind in the way Jaskier always is.

Jaskier positions himself firmly between Geralt's knees, parting them with his warm hands. Geralt shuts his eyes. This is it. He braces himself, as Jaskier gets ready to take off his own pants and shove it in, best to get it over with as fast as possible, and then-

Jaskier kisses his hip, and presses a cheek to his inner thigh with a happy little sigh.

He opens his eyes, peering down at the unexpected sight before him. Jaskier is still fully clothed, still kneeling between his legs, and looking straight up at him. At Geralt's confused look, he grins, face still pressed up against his thigh. It’s warm.

“Alright?”

“Uh,” he grunts uselessly. Jaskier nods, rubbing little circles into the tender dip of his thigh, and places wet little kisses on his skin, tugging gently at the skin just above his clit. Geralt holds his breath, willing himself not to move. This is all wrong. It doesn’t make sense. His skin tingles, feeling hot with each touch. Another kiss; Geralt feels- he wants- 

And Jaskier moves back slightly. Geralt is hyper aware of his hot breath still ghosting his thigh, his hand still gripping, warm and close, and he brings trembling fingers to part the wet folds, looking almost reverent.

And he’s touching him, and it’s different, it feels good and it doesn't make sense. He bites back a noise as Jaskier touches, and touches, and touches him. This isn't the way things are. It doesn’t feel like enough. He wants- he wants-


	2. Chapter 2

Perfect. Oh Gods help him before he comes in his pants, this is the hottest moment- no, not even just the hottest, it's the single _best_ moment of Jaskiers entire life. 

He’s never leaving the bed again, not when he can have the most beautiful man he knows spread out and opened up before him like the sweetest meal, fucking dripping wet and somehow letting him sit between his thighs that could absolutely crush him. Incredible.

He shakes himself from his reverie. _Get ahold of yourself, Jaskier, this might never happen again, focus._

He just can't believe it. Geralt is letting him press loving kisses to his thighs and fingers against his cunt. Who else could say they’d had this privilege? He never thought he’d be allowed. He has to make the most of it. 

He spreads the folds wider, admiring the soft pink of him, glistening and already dripping like honey, and he wants to _taste._ Who would expect such a vulnerable and silky place to lie hidden on such a hardened body? He manages somehow to drag his eyes away. 

Geralt has sat up on his elbows, still wearing that look he gets when he’s feeling one or more emotions that he doesn’t understand, and looking a little dazed.

“Still alright?” 

He knows full well Geralt wouldn't tell him if it wasn't. He’d either throw him off or just sit and take it, neither of which appeal to Jaskier in the least. 

But he’s fluent in Geralt's faces by now, and he gives the smallest little nod, and Jaskier wants to kiss him so badly. He settles for licking a stripe up the center of his pussy, eliciting a sharp breath from Geralt which he counts as an absolute win, and he settles his hands on either thigh to hold him still as he smothers himself in the wet heat. 

His mind feels cloudy. Jaskier is pretty sure he’s never been this hard in his life. If they do this again, maybe Geralt will let him fuck him. He would take his time, pressing little kisses and bites all over him, and then he would sink in slow, because Geralt's cunt is so tight and Geralt is so willing and he couldn't live with himself if he accidentally hurt him in his eagerness. 

But not now; now he just wants to make him feel good, he deserves it and he’s such a martyr about getting things he wants, sometimes. It’s a miracle he’s letting himself be taken care of like this at all, and Jaskier intends to take full advantage of the situation to give Geralt as much affection as he can while hes allowed. 

Or maybe next time Geralt could ride his face, and Jaskier could simply drown in him, and he could put his hands in his hair, and- actually, he could do that right now- He removes his tongue from its minstrations with an obscene squelch.

Geralt's eyes are blown wide and dark and his hair flops over his face as he sits up. _Cute,_ Jaskier thinks dreamily. His hair is mussed to hell. Serves him right for not letting Jaskier braid it. He's gripping the sheets like he's unsure what to do with his hands. Jaskier physically feels his heart grow, and reminds himself to write a sonnet. 

“You can put your hands in my hair, if you want,” he manages, mouth swollen and sticky, and he ducks down again, giddy. 

Geralt's hands come to rest lightly on his head like hes still not sure he can touch. Jaskier guides him, tangles his fingers thoroughly into the brown locks. And he presses back in with slow, languid kisses, his nose grazing the clit as he nuzzles against it. 

He breathes deep, inhaling this moment forever, to take in the heady scent of Geralt's sweat and Geralts sweet, delicious cunt, pulsing involuntarily around him as he comes, and the feeling of Geralt's hands in his hair, tense with the effort not to tug. 

He can't stop looking at Geralt, who is holding onto the headboard and biting his lip, holding his breath and making no noise. His hips hardly twitch. That won't do. He once again removes his tongue and after a few perfunctory kisses to Geralt's thick, heavenly thighs, climbs up to lay across his chest.

“Geralt.”

“Hmm?” 

“Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Well, tell me what you want.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“What I want to do is whatever you want.”

If possible, Geralt looks even more confused. 

“You’re so-” he mutters fondly. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Doesn't matter?

Something strikes him as off about this conversation, the way Geralt seems hesitant to touch him, isn't meeting his eyes. He has the vague feeling he should be indignant about something; a feeling common in Geralt's company.

“What do you mean?” he tries. Geralt shrugs.

“You can use me however you like. You don't have to do any... foreplay. I can take it,” he says casually, with his stiff shoulders and eyes cast to the bed. “But it was kind of you, to do that. Thank you,” he says quickly.

Jaskier stares at him, and it feels like a weight has fallen in his stomach. Fantastic. Well, there goes his erection. Possibly all future erections for the rest of his life as well, if he’s being dramatic about it, and he feels absolutely entitled to be dramatic about it, because of all the things to casually rattle off, it has to be in the top ten most depressing things Geralt has said. possibly even the top ten things Geralt’s said that make him want to vomit the most, and that's a tough list to get ranked on. 

He’s glad, now, that he kept his damned pants on, if this was what the great big sexy idiot was thinking. That he, Jaskier, his very best friend in the whole wide world, would simply _use him_ like some kind of… and where did he even get that idea? Has he not indicated the depth of his care well enough? Oh, fucking hell.

“Geralt '' he tries again, carefully, considering his words. “I refuse to hurt you.”

“You wouldn't be-”

“Don't even finish that sentence. _Use you how I like?_ What do you think you are to me?” A thought comes unbidden to his mind. “Who the hell have you been sleeping with?” Names, he needs names. 

“You can't blame people for not wanting to touch me,” he grits out, expressionless, knees pulled to his chest. “It’s just... the way things are.” And oh, how he begs to differ. 

“ _I_ want to touch you,” he says, voice tight with emotion, reaching a hand out slowly to cup his cheek. He gives him ample time to push it aside if he wishes, but Geralt seeks the touch like a magnet, and Jaskier strokes his thumb down the hard lines of Geralt's face, presses the corner of his lip, touching just to touch. Geralt's eyes flutter shut, starving for it.

To think someone could use him in such a manner, take advantage of this… Jaskier hurts to think of it. When had he ever seen someone touch Geralt outside of a fight? He should have seen.

His fingers are still sticky, he notes absently, holding Geralt's gaze with his own and continuing to caress his face. A smear of come adorns his cheek. Something fragile sits there between them, waiting to be spoken. Jaskier just can't stand it.

“I want you to have what you want.” He leans in, agonizingly slow, gauging Geralt's reaction, and finding no resistance he presses a kiss to his forehead, mumbling words against his skin.

“If I had my way you’d be spoiled. You’d get everything.” 

Another feather light kiss to the cheek. He’s sure Geralt can smell himself on Jaskiers mouth, his fingers. Jaskier needs him to understand. “I could take care of you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s true. We could settle down somewhere, you and me, and you’d never need to get hurt-'' He sits back atop Geralt's chest. “-And I could get you, I don't know, trinkets and things.”

“I don't need trinkets.”

“But you like them. I remember how you kept that little knife I got you.” He threads fingers in Geralt's hair and lays him down on the sheets for a kiss to the lips. 

Geralt's hands sit on his back, and he tugs Geralt's lip between his teeth, making a soft noise at the thought of Geralt's lips. Perhaps they will be chapped and swollen like his, and every look at them will make him unable to resist staying in bed and planting another one on Geralt. More likely, they will immediately heal because of his fancy Witcher metabolism. Well, you can't win them all. 

Geralt's tongue explores his mouth hesitantly, clumsily. As if he’s never been kissed properly. _Surely he has. Surely. Maybe._

It’s wet and messy. Spit dribbles down his chin and Geralt laughs, and it’s everything. His fingers map a path down Geralt's torso, memorizing the hair of his chest and the ripple of muscle under his ribs as they make their way back down to his hips, and he stops, pulling back for breath and holding Geralt's hips gently as Geralt chases his lips. 

“What do you want?”

He squirms impatiently and says nothing. Jaskier kisses his nose, unable to help himself.

“Tell me.” His hand moves closer to rest on his skin, fingers lightly skimming his entrance. Geralt lets out a breath.

“Tell me, please.”

He presses a finger in and stills, waiting. 

“I want you to move your fingers,” Geralt says, surprisingly even. Excellent, it's a start. Jaskier curls his finger and he grunts.

“Perfect. You’re a delight, you know. So responsive.”

“I’m not.”

“Not what? Responsive?” 

He brushes his clit with a calloused thumb, and Geralt lets out a stuttering breath. 

“Or a delight? Because frankly, your pussy feels like fucking velvet, and you’re just gorgeous like this.” 

His thick, godly muscles are gleaming with sweat and he's panting and writhing his hips underneath him, eyes blown wide, and he’s letting Jaskier finger him and boss him around and talk to him. It’s like fate has let everything he wanted fall into his lap in one fell swoop.

_Not a delight. Please._

He feels another spike of righteous indignation at Geralt's previous bedpartners, because honestly, did they even have eyes?

He replaces one finger with three, pumping into the slick heat to stretch him open. His tongue presses against Geralt's nipple, sucking it between his teeth and rolling the other in his fingers. 

Geralt reaches over and removes his hand from his chest, and Jaskiers head snaps up, ready to apologize; he must have crossed a boundary-

Geralt is still holding his hand. He threads their fingers together on the sheets.

Ah, so that’s how it is, then. Jaskier smiles, flushed with affection. Geralt, looking embarrassed and caught out, purses his lip and doesn't look at him. It’s still swollen from kissing, and Jaskier is melting, he’s going to turn into goop right here and now, they're holding hands, and he absolutely must write a song, the worlds greatest love song, it will be. 

He’s so distracted he forgets to move his fingers in Geralt. Geralt, misreading his sudden stop, starts to pull his hand away. Jaskier holds it steadfast and leans over for another kiss. He makes firm circles over Geralts clit and curls his fingers just so, and Geralt is coming again, hot pulses grasping like a plush vice on his fingers and pressing back to fuck himself on Jaskiers hand. Geralt is trembling sweetly, hand still grasped firmly in Jaskiers as he struggles in vain to hold in his sweet, wrecked little noises.

Jaskiers hand is soaked as he finally pulls out, the rough pads of his fingers raisin-like and covered in pearly come. He vaguely wants to lick his hand. He rubs at Geralt's oversensitized clit, which elicits another quiet gasp as the cherry-red, swollen bundle twitches at the slightest contact. He holds him close to his chest and strokes his forehead. How is he alive? How is Geralt letting him stay in the bed right now? Luck is on his side tonight it seems. He decides to push it some more.

“You’re even better than I imagined.Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?”

“Hm?”

“Ages. Youre all I've wanted since I got you. I mean, look at you, darling. Do you mind if I call you that? Is it okay?”

His face pressed into Jaskiers shoulder, he nods. Jaskier grins, shining with unbridled affection. He stands corrected- earlier was not, in fact, the best moment of his life. This has topped it, Geralt clinging to him like an adorable, heavy cat and letting him say what's in his heart, spill all his adoration everywhere. 

"There you go, darling. I've got you."

It really couldn't possibly get better than this.


	3. Chapter 3

This isn't like anything that's ever happened. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, and Jaskier moves them to rest on his sides, soft and comfortable and overwhelming, an invitation to touch wherever he wants, and he keeps saying these _things._

“Tell me what you want, sweet thing. Do you want to come again?”

He could come again, one or two or several more times, as many times as Jaskier is willing to give. But he doesn't want to ask too much. He's already gotten to come twice, Jaskier is going to get impatient if he keeps asking for more.

But if they stop now, Jaskier will leave the bed and go to the other room, and tomorrow he will hear Jaskier through the walls and be alone all over again, and the ache will creep up. He doesn't want Jaskier to leave yet, because...he just doesn't. He didn't know it could be like this, being touched. Hes not ready for it to be over. 

“Darling, I need an answer. Do you want to come again or was that enough?”

“Again,” he rumbles quietly, ashamed.

“You're so good. I know it's hard to tell me the words. Do you want me to stop talking? Because I will, I have half a mind to bury my face back in your cunt if you're amicable. You know, you taste fantastic, a feast fit for fucking royalty. I’ve been famished and haven't even known it, you sweet dear thing.”

“Don’t stop talking.” 

He likes it. It reminds him hes with Jaskier, who is safe, and friendly, and who all night has looked at him with the same look he gives small animals and flowers.

"Your wish is my command, dear Witcher." He winks and Geralt find himself relaxing into the touch, feeling sensitive as a warm thrum spreads through him. _Is sex supposed to feel like this every time? Is this how it is for other people?_

He hates the way he goes pliant when Jaskier calls him names and says these things, soft and patient, everything that he wants to hear. It should feel patronizing, mocking, but it doesn't. Maybe it's him, twisting the meaning and making this more than it is. After all, Jaskier is probably like this with all his bedpartners. Hes so tactile by nature, of course he touches excessively in the bedroom as well.

He wishes there was a way to show him he didn’t have to go to all this effort. He could easily have his way with him without any of it. Geralt would even enjoy it, rough or not, if it was with him. And yet, hes going out of his way to ask if Geralt is comfortable and alright at every step.

Jaskier is...confusing. They’ve been in bed for ages now, hes made Geralt come twice, and he’s still wearing his fucking pants, like he’s not even going to get off. Like he’s just going to take care of Geralt and then go to bed. It doesn't make any sense. 

He’s not even Jaskiers type, he's not young, soft, experienced, he doesn't scream and moan in bed or whisper sweet nothings. He’s just- too much and too quiet all at once. And he doesn't know how to kiss. 

And Jaskier has been so gentle, and it's almost- it can't be romantic. But part of him, the truthful part that he wishes to death didnt exist, wants it to be, itches for something that cant be scratched by a quick fuck. He wants, and it hurts to want or to think about; to be touched, held and considered. For Jaskier to stay in this bed even after he comes as may times as he wants to, and to be patient with him when he cant voice words, and to touch him just because he wants to touch him, to sleep in the bed with him with their feet tangled together and- 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?”

Warm hands take hold of his face and angle his jaw.

"I- " he glances away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He doesnt know what to say. He can feel that Jaskier is hard, the heat of his searing against his stomach. "Fuck," he says. 

"Yes?" His eyes twinkle with mirth. Geralts face it searing hot where his fingers hold him still. 

"Would you?" he blurts. "I want to."

He does want to, no matter how much as the voice in his head tells him as soon as Jaskier finishes he'll be on his way out the door. It's the least he can do for him, after his current display of wanting. 

And this would be selfish in it's own way- he could get himself off for months remembering how Jaskier would look buried in him, or in his hands or mouth, with that soft and knowing look that he _uses on all his partners, Geralt, come on._

"Yes, I would love to, lovely." He feels that warmth spread through him again, pleased at the heavy adoration in his tone.  


"But only if you mean it. Dont say you want to because you think you--you _owe_ me," he spits the word and Geralt suppresses a flinch. Jaskier notices, pinching the bridge of his nose to calm down before he continues. When he continues, its gentle, too quiet. "Or anything like that. Only ask because you want it."

Oh. He's referring to their earlier awkward conversation that hadn't gone quite the way Geralt had expected. But then, nothing had, tonight. He gives a small nod. He wants this, he truly does, even though the memories -men making the bed creak roughly while he bit his tongue and wished they would hurry up- are fresh again and his body tenses with nerves, knowing subconsciously what will come regardless of how he wills himself to relax. He is tense. He shouldnt be. Its Jaskier, and hes been nothing but kind. Even if he wasnt, Geralt would still... it wouldn't matter, he tells himself. It wouldnt hurt him at all.

He imagines Jaskiers face on those men, fucking him hard and painful on purpose. He shakes off the thought, feeling sick. It's all wrong. Geralt couldnt- no, he _could_ bare it, and he will if that's how it will be. It wouldnt hurt him at all. But Jaskier isnt like those angry men, or the women with cold calculating hands. Hes Jaskier. So he nods again firmly.

And _finally_ Jaskier sits up and takes off his clothes. 

Geralt stares, feeling hot and damp and too blissed out to be self conscious, eyes trailing unfocused over his soft torso and his knobby knees and his cock, standing interested and intimidating. Hes thick enough he could make it hurt, if he decided to make the bed creak roughly against the wall, like so many enjoy doing with Geralt. But he reminds himself that Jaskier wouldn't. He wouldn't. _And if he did, so what?_ But he wouldn't, he thinks firmly.

Jaskier clumsily climbs over Geralt to sit at the headboard against the wall, and pats his legs, beckoning to his lap. Geralt kneels on wobbly thighs, still unsteady as a lamb. He half expects to be taken by the hips and firmly sat on Jaskiers cock, crammed full, and he wouldn't mind, and it wouldn't even bother him, he thinks, clenching his teeth. But he brushes the thought away. _Jaskier wouldn't do that._ Hes not like anyone else in the world, Geralt thinks, as Jaskier sits back and just looks at him with that _look_ again, and he feels like his heart is breaking and swelling all at once.

"Alright?" He asks again, brushing hair from his face. Geralt nods immediately. He is alright. Jaskiers hands sit still.

He positions himself over Jaskiers cock, lips barely brushing the head as he rolls his hips down to stretch himself over it. Even as the head presses past his entrance it feels too tight. Sweat drips down his forehead as he spreads his legs wider, sinking little by little down the shaft, flush to his oversensitive walls as they stretch to accommodate the girth. Hes devastatingly wet, dripping all over the sheets, but it's an still an effort not to tense up. He takes deep breaths and works himself down, slides with an exhale until hes buried to the base. 

Big. Fucking hell. He feels like he cant even breathe around it, stuffed and dizzy and sensitive, clenching and fluttering involuntary as he takes in harsh, pleasured breaths. His thighs tremble with effort and hes grateful that Jaskier has let him set the pace. Jaskier is talking, still murmuring sweet nothings and grasping at his hips. He looks pinched, like it takes impressive self restraint not to fuck into him.

He gives a timid thrust, testing the waters, and Geralt whimpers as it ripples through him, burying his face in Jaskiers shoulder to stifle his humiliation. It's so much. It feels too good. Jaskier rolls his hips, in little movements gradually turning to deep, slow thrusts, and he tucks his head over Geralts shoulder to lave and kiss at his neck. Precome trails lazily down Geralts leg and the room is silent but for their panting and Geralts own embarrassing noises, and he can hardly hold them in now even as he burrows further into Jaskiers shoulder.

He doesn't know what's come over him. Hes had plenty of sex before and hes never been this needy. maybe it's just Jaskier, the way it feels allowed, with him. How he encourages Geralts touch, seems to actually like it, and like touching him too. His face still buried close, Geralt cant see his expression, but hes oddly silent.

"Why arent you talking?" He manages.

"I'm listening," Jaskier says, sounding frayed. He gives a deep thrust and Geralt chokes on a moan. "Just like that. Beautiful."

He grinds his hips down, seeking more. Jaskier groans, holds his hips still and spears deep. Geralt winces and he slows again.

"Sorry, darling, got a little too…" he trails off and leans back, breathless, "...excited there." 

Hes drenched in sweat, looking as wrecked as Geralt feels. It makes something in him churn, being wanted as much as he wants. being _desirable,_ to Jaskier of all people.

_He's the only one whose opinion matters anyway,_ Geralt thinks with a wave of fondness. The unexpected force of the thought makes his trembling knees falter and he falls back down, fully seated, with a gasp.

"Ah, legs tired?" His legs arent tired, he's just being ridiculously emotional and vulnerable in ways that will haunt him in the morning, but he allows Jaskier to take him and lay him on the bed anyway, and tuck his hair back from where it's fallen in his face yet again, and then fuck him slow against the headboard. 

Anyone else would be slamming into him with hurried efficiency now. But Jaskier wouldn't. Jaskier holds him steady and kneels, and eases in until their hips are flush. His cock is heavy inside him, purposeful. He glances at him, looking for something and apparently finding it, because he fucks into him steadily and leans in to talk against his neck.

"Oh, you perfect thing. Look at you, your eyes are so round right now, so pretty. As always. Everything you do makes me want to fuck you for... for five hours straight," he mutters breathlessly. Its unhurried and sweet, the base of his red-swollen cock ocassionaly just peeking out from Geralts entrance before he presses back in, slow and intense, drawing gasps from Geralt with each thrust as he rolls his hips in tiny circles. 

"So handsome. And so good. Dont hold in your noises, please, they're just... so good." His breath tickles, and the things he's saying about Geralts eyes and his body and how he's good, are- it's too much, its intense and Geralts chest feels funny. Geralt squirms, spreading his legs impossibly wider for more.

"Jaskier," he whimpers pleadingly. Jaskiers hips stutter and he comes, buried deep. 

Geralt shivers as he pulls out. The cold seems to creep in from the drafty window as the reality sets in, it's done. Hes going away now.

The worst part is, deep down he knows Jaskier wouldnt hurt him in the ways anyone else would. Hes too good for that. But this, Jaskier _would,_ and Jaskier absolutely _will._ Hes seen it many a time with countless fucks. Jaskiers leaving abilities are infamous. But he has no right to be upset. He knew what he was getting into, and they'll still travel together, and he can work up the courage to offer again sometime. He'll have to frame it as just a fuck, so he doesnt seem too needy for it, doesnt undermine his waning dignity by letting Jaskier know he wants to be held and petted like an oversized cat. Hes already deep in thought regarding the semantics of how he'll ask without begging, when Jaskier starts rubbing his clit with his palm, and it becomes suddenly apparent he is still in the bed, which throws an unexpected wrench in his plans.

Jaskier thumbs him open again and spreads him wide, the lips of his cunt swollen, fat and rosy with arousal. Come drools from him, his own and Jaskiers mixed. Jaskier massages the swollen area with the pads of his thumbs, shoves his face between the lips to lap up come like a dessert, tonguing the entrance in a tender kiss. Geralt swears under his breath, bemused. Jaskier is here, and hes not stopping, and best not sure what it all means. He feels his face redden remembering how Jaskier said he tasted sweet, a meal fit for royalty. Jaskier has a way of making him feel like- He makes a low noise and Jaskier hums contentedly into him, a pleasant vibration that has him spreading his legs wider again. Geralt shoves desperately against Jaskiers face, leaving a slick trail up his chin. Jaskier obliges and moves his jaw so his tongue splits deep and it feels so good, hes never- no one has ever made him feel- Jaskier makes eye contact and he looks so fond even while he eats Geralt out, and Geralt knows the same look is reflected on his face right now, and Jaskier drags his tongue just so-

It doesnt take much. Overwhelmed, he comes, and Jaskier tongues him through it as he quivers, hands gripping at his hair. He shudders and lets himself go slack. Jaskier climbs up and lies down on top of him in their mingled sweat. The sheets are soaked. They should probably do something about those, but Jaskier looks in no hurry to get up as he hums a half-written tune into Geralts chest.

He fumbles. Can he put his hands on Jaskiers back? Or was that for during sex only? He isn't sure, so they settle awkwardly at his sides. Jaskier reaches down absently and takes one, and with his other hand traces nonsense patterns on Geralts chest, as if he belongs here, like they do this every night. And Jaskier meets his eyes again and visibly softens.

"Always so tense. It's okay to just relax, you know. I've got you."

He feels raw this way, somehow more naked than before, because Jaskier sees him and knows him, somehow. He has for years. Seen him, and known him, and come along anyway. He thinks about what Jaskier said, about settling down, and trinkets, and wanting him since he first got him. Did he mean any of that, or was it his usual embellishment-based flattery? Surely it was. He always does this, makes all kinds of promises to people during sex, and then he leaves them right after.

But here he still is, in Geralts bed, still humming into his chest hair. Geralt has had many firsts this night, and wonders if this is a first for Jaskier. If it is, that would mean he was serious about- everything. Geralt wants to ask. They lie there for awhile, Geralt staring at the ceiling in thought, trying to muster up what to say next without either offending Jaskier or giving himself away.

"You're still here," he says at last.

Jaskier laughs. "After all this time, I'd think you realized that I'm hard to get rid of." Seeing Geralts expression, they lapse into a brief silence, and Jaskier sounds hesitant when he speaks again. "I suppose I must ask- what do you want now?"

“I want you to-'' he cuts himself off. He wont push any further. But Jaskier is warm, and still here, and looks like he's about to drift off to sleep, still wrapped around Geralts front contentedly.

“Yes?” he yawns.

“Stay in bed with me.”

Jaskier huffs a pleased laugh, shoulders falling in relief. “Of course I’ll stay. Forever and ever, if you’d have me.”

“Forever, then,” he mumbles, heart pounding at the thought. 

Forever. He releases a breath and lets himself relax, shifting easily into Jaskiers hold. Jaskier wants to hold him. Jaskier smells good. With his face pressed into the sheets and his feet tangled in Jaskiers, he sleeps, warm and held, and it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment to let me know what you think, I love constructive criticism, compliments, random thoughts, etc...
> 
> Also this is kind of random but I just realized how different the format looks on a phone vs a computer.. it makes me want to go back in and re-space every line.. annoying!


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